


Your Starless Eyes

by Paytonkilljoy



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Depression, Drugs, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:59:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paytonkilljoy/pseuds/Paytonkilljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard Way can't shake the memories that continue to haunt him. The fear of being placed in a mental hospital looms over his head, along with self-destructive thoughts.. His best friend and brother want nothing more than to save him from himself before it's room late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Starless Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This story talks about depression/suicide with hints of drug abuse. Neither of these things should be taken lightly, and I highly advise seeking help. No one deserves to feel that way.

Chapter 1-

A bright light cast a long shadow down the length of my bed, making the dust look beautiful for once. The vertical line of harsh sun let the clouds of shimmering dust particles dance just above my hand. I reached my deathly pale hand to feel the warmth against my skin and let it swish freely through the moats of dust.

 

It's really disgusting, actually, that something so rancid can seem beautiful if you stare for too long. That goes for more than simple dead skin and fibers of clothing making swirls around my bones and mesmerizing me for longer than it should have. Any completely sane person would easily see the fault in this endless train of thought. But that rule excludes me, because I have convinced myself I am not completely sane.

 

Anyone in their right mind would dress themselves, eat a balanced meal, grab their things, and start their day just like commercials portray. But in reality, a vast majority does just that. Then you get the black sheep, in this case would be me, who can't seem to drag them self out of their all too comfortable bed. The mattress has locked me in place. The blankets are strangling me.  
The pillows have weighed my head down.

 

It's impossible to get up, I promise.

 

A small piece of advice for those that don't know me, would be to never trust a word I say.  
I would tattoo it on my forehead if I could. I'd wear a sign. I'd write it on my arm. Anything.  
But no one knows me, and no one wants to, so the ink would be wasted on undeserving skin. Mostly likely too weak to handle the needle anyway.

 

I feel that if my joints unlock themselves, my tissue paper skin will wrinkle, crumple, and I'll be blown under the bed forever next time someone opens the door.

 

But no one will ever open that door, so that lovely plan of slipping away quietly is spoiled before I even got to the exciting part.  
The part when my bones collapse beneath me with a sickening snap that would churn the stomach of anyone trained in combat. Their burning eyes that have witnessed tragedy wouldn't be able to handle the sight of my body sinking to the floor, skin ripping at the seams where the stitches have frayed. No sound will escape my chapped lips, for my jaw will be screwed shut before this process begins. Maybe the gears of my mouth will come loose when my chin softly cracks against the freezing floor. By then, my hair will have covered my lifeless eyes and the color will drain from my hollow cheeks as they hug my skeletal structure. I'll be nothing more than a heap of confusion, I'll truly be a sight to see. And just like tissue paper, I'll blow away to be forgotten.  
Like I said, anything becomes beautiful if you stare too long.  
Those soldiers’ eyes will be locked on my figure for so long that their warped minds will have conformed to the four walls of this room, just like mine had. They will be confined by the cement and never raise above the pavement because what they see will be too breathtakingly painful to ever leave their hearts. With minds no bigger than the dimensions of my room, it won't have a chance to wonder further than what they see right in front of them.

 

Why can't anyone else see what is directly in front of them? Why can't they catch the bag of broken bone before is hits the ground for the final time?

 

Because no one is coming through that door. No one is looking for worthless tissue paper.  
And that's where my problem begins.  
No one has opened that door in seven days.  
The hinges haven't squeaked in one hundred sixty eight hours.  
The handle hasn't turned in ten thousand eighty minutes.  
Goosebumps raised the surface of my already prickling skin. Each bump seemed to let out waves of heat from my now trembling arms that suddenly feel too exposed.

Ten thousand eighty.

One zero zero eight zero.

10080 New York, NY.

 

(I recommend googling 10080 for this to make sense before you continue reading)

 

The coincidence was almost too much, already practically snapping the nerve endings at the base of my brain and the tip of my spine as I slipped across the sheets to look at the small calendar I taped up beside me weeks ago. Luckily, it was turned to the right month. I tend to keep a black pen to check off the days with. But it fell somewhere in the abyss that is the underbelly of my bedroom, and I don't believe I'm brave enough to risk an arm being severed accidentally. Who knows? This has to be the umpteenth time my once nimble hands have lost something behind the bed, by now the lost pens and pencils may be planning an attack against me. Quite frankly, I'm not in the mood to be stabbed by vicious, vengeful, violent inky warriors.  
I counted the days over and over again to see if my blurry eyesight wasn't tricking me.  
Exactly eleven days.

 

Eleven.

 

My mind tried to comprehend the fact that the world isn't going to shut down like it did two years ago. The planes won't be cancelled. The train won't be bringing people far away from the clouds of smoke and debris.

 

When I was in high school, I loved to scan the chapter we were working on. Whether it be a novel, a section in social studies, or even geometry problems, I consistently tried to find connections where they didn't exist. My head would put the events in chronological order, sift through pervious knowledge, and see if I could connect anything. The few times I attempted to share these thoughts with teachers they said nothing but stated that I was wrong. After that, my new hobby became finding the coincidences that were common knowledge to anyone with an interest in the topic, and I would challenge the teacher. I'm sure they didn't mind an interest in their class, yet I could see in their eyes that they feared anyone who knew more than they could teach. These mind games kept me entertained. It resulted in accusations of rudeness and "sass". To be quite honest, I didn't deny these accusations, but after they were made I would attempt to explain my reasoning for these games I played. Not a single person understood.  
Even today, with high school was done and over with, my thoughts are racing approximately ten thousand eighty miles per hour.  
Per hour is a measure of activity in one single hour.

 

Per hour equals one hour, and ten thousand plus that "per hour" makes eleven.

 

Only 11 days.

 

September has finally come.

 

Schools are starting. Warm weather is ending.

 

And those bitter cold months will settle deep within me. This year it seems as if they never left..  
Maybe these walls have isolated me to the point of locking in the seasons and halting it from any change, despite the position of the Earth or the color of the leaves. It's now autumn, but I could swear with my hand over my heart above my grandmother’s grave that winter never left. It never left the cave of my chest, leaving crystals of ice and frost to bite at the edges when it tries to melt.  
The numbers fade to the background noise of my crowded head, but never fully leave. Since the image of those bright leaves and dull branches entered the inside of my dark eyelids, my feet are yearning to drag me to the door, up the stairs, and outside.  
Maybe today will be the day someone opens that old door that's been glaring at me for seven whole days and nights. I know in my icy chest that it will never happen until they smell death and decay through the lush carpet above, so I may as well squeak the knob open myself.

 

"Breathe." I whisper to the ceiling until I think it hears my message loud and clear:

'Let me breathe..'

 

My feet are the first thing to touch the floor, crinkling at the shocking cold of the cement where no carpet has covered the bare floor. I hiss in response and raise myself to stand up tall. I heard my joints crack and loosen themselves enough for me to slip on a pair or what I think are clean socks along with shoes and a thick coat.

 

My converse clad feet kick aside empty orange bottles with white lids until they are all hidden beside the small waste bin I keep for pencil shavings and the pens I get rid of instead of letting them join the misfit army of lost writing utensils.  
I don't both to read the labels of any of the bottles that click as they roll into place on the slick floor. I know what each and every one of them is. Remembering the names is like remembering an old friend who turned on you in elementary school, quite unpleasant but inevitable when you see them on a commercial unexpectedly or when you come face to face with them. I don't come face to face with those oh so medical looking containers, because they've been empty for weeks. I also turned off my TV.  
With the cool handle between my bony fingers, I realized what I'm doing and what I could be walking into. A deep breath wheezed from somewhere inside me. Odd. I didn't know any of me was capable of breathing in a moment like this.  
I felt like a vampire waking from the dead as I walked up the stairs to the kitchen.

 

The light washed my face in warmth but burned my eyes at the same time. I can't say it didn't feel good to take more deep breathes that felt fresh in my lungs instead of musty and thick.

 

A small noise, almost like a yelp, came from somewhere to my left. It was easily recognizable as a noise my mother makes often enough for me to remember after trying to forget everything for a week straight.

 

"G-Gerard," she stuttered, a look of concern flooding her eyes while her lips stayed in a straight line "what are you doing?"  
My voice came out rougher than I would have liked, but I'm still thanking god that I managed to get a sound out.

 

"Coming upstairs."

 

I tried to make it sound like my actions were as normal as possible, but the tension between my weak body and her rigid one was too apparent to ignore. I decided to embrace the awkward with open arms by taking a seat the dining room table, which I haven't sat in for months.

 

"Michael!" Mother’s shrill voice called over her rounded shoulder that was covered with a cerulean sweater.  
I watched her curls, that had practically been ironed into place, shift back to the front of her shoulder as her head shot back to me. I raised an eyebrow questioningly, but she ignored the gesture and starred at me like I'm a madman when my small teeth sunk into the flesh of an apple that was left in a wooden bowl atop the table.

 

My younger brother appeared behind our mother just as I was taking my second bite of the apple.

 

"Wha-" was all he managed to choke out.

 

I can't exactly define the emotion their reactions caused inside me, but I don't like it one bit. The nagging mysterious emotion was nearly a mix between aggravation and rejection. The words that would range on a scale between those two emotions just simply don't fit, so it must lie somewhere beyond in the gray space no one has bothered to make a word for yet.

 

There my mother stands, gaping at her eldest son because he decided to witness something other than the days passing by the streak of light passing across the room. Beside her is my younger brother, gaping along with her. At least in his shocked expression I can see a little twitch of a smile of his lips. He was the last one to knock on my door and ask me to come out.. I know he always tried the hardest to keep me sane even when our parents begged me to check myself into a mental hospital or at the very least a clinic for people who have been through traumatic events. I shuddered at the memory. It was gut wrenching to hear the people who raised me say that there is something severely wrong with me that can't be fixed. The Band-Aid on that wound was Mikey's encouraging words of "there is nothing wrong with you", but even that didn't last long. I think the realization that I'm hopeless set in. He only has fragments of glimmering hope left for the twisted mind of his completely crazy older brother. But glimmers and slivers are better than what my parents have left. It's like they want to suck the hope from me with their black hole hearts so they can put a label on what's eating away at my mind.

 

"What are you doing?" Her voice was quiet, barely above a confused whisper.

 

I pondered that question deeply for a moment or two. I could tell her my exact plans, but then it wouldn't be special. Sometimes you have to keep certain things to yourself to make sure they stay safe in your heart and only yours, not spending the night or making a home in someone else's. Special things stay with you until you offer them up to others, and I don't want to offer anything of interest to her ironed curls and spider web eyelashes.

 

"Eating an apple." I said with a light shrug off my shoulders. The sarcasm barely made an appearance in my monotone act of one, but it slipped out from behind the thick curtain though I wanted to save it up for a grand finale, but the guest appearance spiced things up enough to be interesting again.

 

"I see that." She whispered with a light scoff to follow. The perfect combinations to alert me to what conversation with soon follow.  
Her thin slacks stretched and relaxed as she shifted her muscles to take a seat directly across the wide table from me. I imagined a King and Queen in these same positions, sadly this table is nothing but a square thick with years of lacquer slapped layer upon layer. Nothing about this home is royal, even remotely grand for matter. With a madman in the dungeon and power stricken rulers, there is nothing special here.

 

Mikey followed her to the table, but sat near the corner to be closer to me.

 

"How are you feeling?" She asked shamelessly. Her bluntness to the subject mixed her worried eyes stunned me to silence.  
I believe my recent behaviors have set in and she isn't taking it well.

 

When I didn't answer, I felt Mikey's soft gaze rest on my bloodshot eyes, but I couldn't drag them to meet his.  
My teeth broke the last fleshy part of the skin left, so I chewed before swallowing the last bit of sweet fruit.

 

I avoided getting the sticky juice down my wrist or letting it dribble to my chin. Only the core remained in my slim fingers.

 

"Honey," mothers voice was softer than before, "we think you need help."

 

The second "we" left her mouth, my eyes adjusted themselves on my brother’s face, and away from the moats of dust before me.

 

"Your mothers right, son." A deeper voice was now behind my mom, his hand resting gently on her rounded shoulder.  
Despite my mother and fathers stares burning holes in my temple, I couldn't break the direct eye contact I now held with Mikey.

 

"I just want you to be ok." He whispered with a hint of pain edging towards the surface of his voice. It was held down by the chains our parents had bound. "Pain is bad" they had practically preached to us, along with their famous "don't let yourself get hurt".

 

It struck a nerve deep inside them both when my state of mind became obvious.

 

"I am." I whispered back, but the pain flowed freely from my voice like a waterfall from my mouth.

 

"You're not fine!" Father all but snarled, "People who are fine don't hide in a basement their whole lives. I think you need to get help, maybe go somewhere.."

 

Mikey instantly jumped to his feet and clenched his shaking fist into balls that looked too tight for his skin.

 

"No! You can't just send him away." Mikey cried.

 

"People like him don't belong here."

 

They avoided specifics at all costs. I knew exactly what he was getting at though, that people like me belong in a mental hospital. I couldn't wrap my restricted mind around living in a place like that.

 

"He is your SON." Mikey was now shouting. He was desperate to change their narrow minds.

 

Our parents simply nodded their heads, but the fact that they gave me life years ago seemed to hold no relevance to them.

 

"Maybe you shouldn't blame the person, but who created them."

 

Mikey's brave side finally shone through enough to get a point across.

 

"Michael!" Our mother exclaimed, as if he had just admitted to a sin.

 

He did nothing but hold down a smirk, spin on his heels and exit where he had entered not long ago.  
Moments of silence followed. Only the ticking of the clock could be heard above my parents uncomfortable breathes. I have grown uncomfortably comfortable in situations like these, so breathe came easier to me.

 

Out of the side view of my eye, I could see Mikey peaking around the wood trimmed corner.  
"We just-" My mother’s weak voice came out in a broken whisper.

 

I stood slowly, placing the browning apple core on the overly shiny table. The room suddenly felt like it had shrunk, and I looked to the quickest way out.

 

"Where are you going?" It seemed like the whole world shouted at me, but it was only my parents.

 

"People like me don't belong here."

 

Their eyes widened as I took a step outside to the real world. I felt a small sense of triumph for when I had used their own words against them. But at the same time, the realization set in of how true it really is.

 

I don't belong here.


End file.
